221A
by Selene Antilles
Summary: I live in 221A and this is my story. Sort of implied HouseOC. Sequel Chapter Added!
1. 221A

Disclaimer: Only the neighbor is mine.

**221A**

I moved into this apartment three years ago. It was about 11:00 at night and I was exhausted from all the packing, unpacking, loading, unloading. I poured myself a glass of wine – white, always white – and stepped out onto my new balcony. I leaned against the railing, occasionally sipping at the sweet alcohol.

Piano notes drifted by me, startling me. The sound had come very suddenly from no where. I looked all around, but could see nothing. There were no lights on in the apartment next to mine and I couldn't see anywhere else. However, being that I was tired beyond words, I decided not to let my overactive curiousity stop me from enjoying the beautiful music. You could practically see the emotions ripping through the keys as the music poured from unseen fingertips. Anger slowly became grief which slowly became a sort of bitter acceptance.

It became my own little traditon. Every time I was tired or angry or any other less-than-pleasant emotion, I would pour myself a glass of wine and sit on the balcony, just listening to the mysterious serenade. This had been going on for almost a year when, one August night, I finally discovered who the unknown pianist was. Being that it was August, and only 9:00, it was still light out. I had had one hell of a day – getting fired is never good for one's cheeriness. When the music began, I idly glanced around. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a glass of Scotch on a paper napkin, resting on a piano. My eyes widened and I leaned out over the balcony as far as I could to get a better look.

He was older, maybe in his late 40s or early 50s. A heavy five-o-clock shadow covered his chin and gray showed through his dark hair. He wore a black AC/DC shirt, though the music that poured from his fingers was distinctly Schumann. A black and silver cane rested against the leg of the piano. Eyes closed, head bent, something about him was comforting in an odd sort of way.

Every night from then on I would sit on the balcony with my glass of wine and watch him play. I knew his emotions – his pain, his joy, his frustration, his love. I knew nearly nothing about _him_, besides the fact that he walked with a cane and played the piano, but I knew his emotions like the back of my hand. It became a sixth sense.

About a year and a half after my discovery of the identity of the musician, I met Len. For the first six months, I thought he was wonderful. Until two weeks ago that is, when I discovered those frequent, long business trips were really to visit his wife and three kids in Maryland. Needless to say, I tossed his things into garbage bags and tossed them onto the corner with a 'FREE' sign. So maybe it was a bit extreme, but I was angry! Anyways, I brooded for 13 days, never once setting foot onto the balcony with my customary glass of wine. Last night, as I lay awake, the familiar sounds of a piano drifted in through my open window.

It was the most welcome thing I'd ever heard. I sat up and walked over to the window. There he sat, a glass of Scotch on a paper napkin, the cane leaned against the wooden leg, the closed eyes, the bent head. A small smile spread across my face. He always knew just what to play. It was as if my emotions were intrinsically linked to his piano strings. Wagner for anger, Beethoven for pain, Mozart for joy. Tonight, like the first night I saw him, it was Schumann. Schumann meant two things: loss and hope. An odd pairing at first glance, but with close study it makes sense. A hope for new beginnings because of a loss. He had played Schumann the night the dark-haired woman left and now he played it for me. Though we might never meet, the pianist and I shared something. A little piece of heart and a little piece of soul.

I live in 221A and this is my story.

_Please review!_


	2. 221B

Disclaimer: Only the neighbor is mine.

A/N: It's very rare that I write sequel chapters, but this just sort of flowed out!

**221B**

The ER was crowded when I passed on my way to the vending machine. My best friend's money in my pocket, all I could think about was that Snickers bar that had been calling to me all day. A familiar, feminine voice called out my name over the din and my shoulders slumped. The cane doesn't do much for quick escapes. She called me in, telling me in that annoying, pleading voice I've rarely been able to deny that she could really use some help. There was a five-car pile-up on the highway and every gurney was packed.

I shook my head, ready to vehemently deny her, create a distraction and scoot away, when a face I swore I knew pushed into my line of vision. I sucked my breath in and hobbled over to her gurney. Dirt was smeared across her face, but you could tell she had pretty features hidden behind it. Blood seeped from a gash in her forehead and her lips were swollen and bleeding. I stared intently at her. I'm not one to forget a face or a name but I just couldn't put my finger on her.

I sat in her room for nearly two hours, trying in vain to figure out who she was. The name on the chart wasn't at all familiar and, even cleaned up, her face gave me no clues. In frustration, I gave up, the weight of defeat pressing heavily on my shoulders. I slept on the couch in my office that night, too tired to go home. By morning, I had far from forgotten about the pretty accident victim, but with a new patient and avoiding clinic duty, she wasn't my top priority. It was almost 4:00 when I finally slipped down to her room, only to discover that she was long gone. I sighed, knowing I had missed my chance.

I left straight from her room and went home. I poured myself a glass of Scotch, set it on a paper napkin on my piano, leaned my cane against the leg and sat down to play. I almost never know what I'm going to play until the music is already floating out the window to my neighbors, but I was especially surprised this time. Instead of Beethoven or Schumann, as I was expecting, I found myself playing a piece I had composed years before. It was before my infarction, back when I had a happy-go-lucky streak. I was young, wild, free and madly in love when I'd written it. I hadn't played it in years.

The next morning, as I started up my bike, heading for work, I happened to glance up. Two sets of address numbers glared down at me, guiding me, though I didn't know where. I shook my head to clear it and sped off. It was hours later when the importance of those numbers finally hit me. I left the ducklings in the middle of a conference and made my way down to the clinic. The head nurse sent me an evil glare, likely because of my lack of clinic hours, but obligingly pulled up the records for my mysterious stranger. Her address told me all I needed to know. 221A.

I drove straight home instead of taking one of my numerous detour routes. I knocked abruptly on her door, praying to a God I don't believe in that she'd be home. I was just about to give up when I heard the lock turn. I sighed briefly in relief. She pulled open the door and I grinned. My mysterious woman wasn't so mysterious after all.

"I saved your life yesterday," I announced to her, without any form of introduction.

A slow, easy smile spread across her face. "You've saved my life more times than I can count," she informed me quietly, "I wondered if we'd ever meet."

She invited me in for a glass of wine, apologizing for the lack of music. Now I knew why I recognized her. She had been the only audience to my piano playing for the last three years. It wasn't her face that had seemed familiar. It was something we shared. A little piece of heart and a little piece of soul. And I'm very glad we met.

I live in 221B and this is my story.

_Please review!!!!_


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